


a cheap imitation of joy

by brokendrums



Series: like sunshine and rain [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8373244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokendrums/pseuds/brokendrums
Summary: Niall doesn't come to Harry's magazine launch party, so Harry goes to him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Fono - Real Joy

Harry stares at his face in the mirror. He looks washed out. Too drunk, eyes wide, face pale. The glass is grubby with handprints, spindly lines from where someone has pressed their foundation covered fingers to steady themselves. Harry’s reminded of sitting up late on a school night, watching an episode of CSI as they dusted down doorknobs and wine crusted glasses. 

Harry shivers at the thought and is careful not to touch the mirror. 

He zips up and turns. The mirrors over the sink reflect off the mirrors above the urinals and the image of them bounce back against each other, a seemingly never-ending rectangle, Harry getting smaller and smaller as the reflection disappears into nothing. 

He blinks. He’s had too much champagne. 

There’s a little wooden box on the marble counter, bottles of expensive aftershave and deodorant and a stack of condoms tucked inside. It looks well rifled over but still contained to the little box, as if the patrons of the party are selfish enough to go for a free piece of spearmint gum but classy enough to keep it tidy when they leave. 

Club bathrooms at home would have piss on the floor and by this late in the night, all the condoms would be safely stuffed into the pockets of some seventeen-year-old who somehow got past the bouncer and wanted to pretend to his friend that he had any use for them. They’d be ripped open and blown up in the back of the taxi home, much to the displeasure of the driver. Harry’s been there, done that. 

Harry runs his finger over the edge of a silver Durex, his eyes watering at the first chew of a piece of gum. Maybe if he pockets one for good luck, he can get lucky tonight. If Niall were here, maybe he could’ve slipped it into his back pocket and he’d come and find him, they could be back into these bathrooms in a matter of minutes. Harry doesn’t think anyone would mention it if they heard him moaning from one of the stalls. 

Harry swallows the well of saliva in his mouth. 

He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Moaning. Loud. It’s been so long. 

Yeah. 

He’s had too much champagne. 

Niall’s not even here. 

His invitation went unanswered. Harry closes his eyes against the bare bulbs of the bathrooms, imagines Niall turning up in a pressed suit. Maybe something navy, his hair all swept up like Harry’s was supposed to be tonight. He’d wear his glasses and Harry would have to stop himself from touching him every few minutes. 

Harry blows out a breath through his nose. 

Niall’s not here. 

He hasn’t really thought about him in months but the past few days -- since he’d sent him a message, and then a proper paper invite -- it’s all that’s been on his mind.

It’s a wall of music once he ventures outside the quiet envelope of the bathrooms. The thump of R&B that Harry’s not really been listening to all night as he walks out into the crowded corridor. The lights are still dim, the dancefloor a beacon of glittering blues and greens of the laser lights but the rest of the club is shrouded in darkness. There’s a queue of girls waiting for the ladies’ toilets, the club photographer going through them one by one and picking who he wants for the website. 

Harry shuffles past them all, head ducked down low. 

“We ready to go?” Glenne asks, already getting up off the leather wrap-around booth that they’ve all squeezed into. It’s getting later -- the club filling up. Harry doesn’t recognise a few of the people lingering on the fringes of the lounge and he doesn’t want to get pulled into conversations. He’d do something stupid -- a hand on a bare thigh, his nose pressed against soft hair as he whispers into someone’s ear and then they’d be out the door and Harry’d do something he’s going to regret. 

He nods, lifts a glass from the table and downs it. It bubbles and effervesces in his throat and his eyes water again -- it’s not just champagne. 

He’s not sure how he convinces Glenne to go on ahead home and leave him in the back of the taxi, listing into the window until the condensation leaches through his shirt sleeve to make him shiver.

She gives him a look over her shoulder -- his jacket tucked into the crook of her elbow so ‘you don’t vomit on the Dior, Harry, darling’ -- as she steps out of the car. It’s a mixture of _behave yourself_ and _wake me up when you come home sad and moping._

Harry appreciates her for it, sinking back into the back of the car. He nearly doses off, the heat blowing round him from the vents. He’s drowsy from the alcohol and the lull of the tires rolling smoothly underneath the quiet car. It reminds him of being on the bus, his eyes drooping and giving in to the urge to fall asleep anywhere. 

But he’s not on the bus. And that’s what forces him to keep his eyes open -- to stare at the orange streetlights as they shine further and further apart as the car pulls further and further out of town. 

He doesn’t remember giving the driver the address -- maybe Glenne did -- but it doesn’t feel like long at all before he’s pulling up outside the familiar gate.

“Thanks,” Harry says gruffly, shoving a few twenty pound notes into the driver’s hand and reaching for the door handle. 

He feels drunker now that he’s outside, his feet unsteady as he steps away from the car. It’s quiet, his feet loud on the gravel as he slips up to the hidden side gate. The car pulls away and it’s dark until the security light pops on and Harry has to reach out against the fence so he doesn’t fall over. 

Niall answers the door on the end of a laugh. Harry can see it in his eyes -- the way they’re a little watery, the crinkle at the corner. The top button of his shirt is undone and he’s holding a glass in his hand, his arm raised as he answers the door. 

It takes a split second for Niall to register who it is taking up space on his doorstep and Harry can see the moment he realises -- his face dropping -- that it’s Harry. 

“Hi,” Harry says, forcing himself to grin. There’s a slur to his voice, the last glass of champagne working through him. Niall’s face swims and he has to look down at his bare feet curled on the welcome mat. “Expecting someone else?”

He feels even more wobbly here, standing in the blinding light of Niall’s security light. 

Niall doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows dipping into a frown. Harry shifts his weight, feels the chill in the night finally through his thin white shirt. For a long moment, Harry expects Niall to slam the door in his face but he slowly steps to the side, pulling the door properly open for Harry to step through. 

There’s music on in the living room, the tell-tale din of an after-party of some sort. The hallway is warm and welcoming, the familiar scent of Niall’s house -- grass, whatever he’s made for dinner and the Diptyque set Harry got him for Christmas one year. 

“Niall?” someone calls, the door to the living room swinging properly open. Warm light floods into the hallway and Harry can see the confused expression on Niall’s profile before it goes carefully blank. “Was that --”

Deo cuts off, coming up short at the sight of Harry in the hallway. He eyes Niall over Harry’s shoulder but Harry finds himself unable to look at him to gauge his expression. He regrets coming here at all as his drunken bravado slowly melts out of his belly.

“No,” Niall replies, his voice rough but even. “It’s Harry.”

“Come to join the party?” Deo asks, his voice edged with sarcasm. Harry stares at the tiled floor and the way his toes are pointing slightly towards each other. The security light outside the porch window catches his boot, the velvet shining.

There’s a burst of laughter from inside the living room, the rest of the party enjoying themselves and Harry knows he’s not going in there. He can’t face it. 

“I shouldn’t have --” Harry starts, turning in the direction of where Niall’s standing. He still can’t look up so he tells Niall’s ankles instead. --”come. I’ll just go --”

Deo snorts and then disappears back into the living room, the door ajar so the sounds of the party still filter out into the hallway. “Wasn’t him!” Deo announces to the room and there’s a hum of disappointment before the chatter starts up again.

“Do you want a drink?” Niall asks him. 

Harry shakes his head, risking a glance up at Niall’s face. He looks a little bit drunk himself, his guard down because he’s in his own house so he’s not worried about looking pissed. He looks soft, his hair tousled on to the top of his head where it’s wilted during the night. Harry’s missed him. 

“Are you coming in to see the rest of them?” Niall asks, his expression unreadable. 

Harry shakes his head again and watches as Niall rolls his eyes, his mouth twitching with half a smile. 

“Go to bed then,” he says with an exasperated huff and pushes past him towards the living room door. The voices raise as Niall joins them and then the door swings properly shut. 

Harry maps his way through Niall’s house in the dark. He can’t specifically remember the way to his room, his last visit here more than a year ago but he finds himself there anyway, sinking down onto the unmade end of Niall’s bed. 

The door into his dressing room is ajar, the light over the mirror in the bathroom on but the rest of his room is dim. He’s added more art -- framed pictures that catch the moonlight through his open blinds and a few photos stuck up onto the mirror in the corner. He has a guitar there too, like he’s ran out of room in his entire house for his accumulating collection.

Harry runs his fingers over the fret, feels what Niall must feel every day. Harry’s stomach aches for when Niall used to teach him, his arm wrapped around his back so he could reach the fret with his fingers too. It feels like a waste now that Harry’s given up playing mostly, just fucking about with one if he’s in a studio or hanging about with friends but Harry cherishes the memories. 

The duvet smells of him when Harry leans back into it, warm and comforting when Harry presses his face into the soft folds of his sheets. It’s how Harry’s bed used to smell, the unwashed duvet pushed into the corner of his bunk or the sheets in his bed in LA after Niall last stayed there. 

Harry hadn’t washed them until long after the smell had gone and he’d come to terms with them never smelling like that again.

He sighs, the room starting to spin around him and closes his eyes. 

 

Niall turns the bedside lamp on when he comes to bed and it wakes Harry up, his torso tangled into the duvet. 

“Hey,” Harry croaks, his mouth dry now that his hangover is already starting to build on him. He’s not sure how long he’s been sleeping but Niall looks drunker than before, his eyes glassy as he perches beside him on the mattress. 

“Shift over,” he mutters, leaning back into the pillows so he can pop the button on his jeans. 

Harry does what he’s told, shuffling further into the middle of the mattress and watching as Niall wriggles out of his clothes. The lamplight falls warmly on Niall’s face, the shadows softening his stern expression. 

He looks good, his black boxers cutting into his hips and and tight over the curve of his arse. Harry can make out the soft bulge of his dick as he kicks his jeans off his ankles and then he’s sitting up, the smooth expanse of his back to Harry as he pulls his shirt over his head. 

He smells of stale cologne and sweat as he falls back onto the mattress beside him, whiskey on his breath and his hair sticking up at the back.

“Niall,” Harry starts, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

Niall shakes his head, tugging the corner of the duvet out from under Harry’s side. He struggles, throwing a glare at Harry until Harry lifts his hip to let him under the covers. “We’ll talk in the morning,” he mutters, his eyes already closing as he curls onto his side. 

Harry stares at him for a moment, edging closer to him until Niall opens an eyelid, his face crumpling into a frown. 

“Don’t.” is all he says, rolling onto his back and then over to his other side. He fumbles with the lead for a moment before the lamp shuts off and the room drops back into darkness. 

“Why didn’t you come?” Harry can’t help asking, the darkness around them making it feel like he’s the only one there. He sounds childish. Petulant. 

Harry lies for a moment listening to Niall breathe. It’s too irregular for him to be asleep but neither of them say a word, Harry’s stomach rolling as he turns onto his opposite side and forces himself to sleep. 

 

Harry’s disorientated when he wakes again. It doesn’t feel like morning yet, but it has to be. The duvet is too tight around him and there’s a warm weight against his side. 

He knows it’s Niall without opening his eyes. He can smell him, knows the familiar press of his knee against his thigh, the way his fingers have curled against the inside of Harry’s wrist. 

He turns his head, eyes fluttering and he’s met with lips. 

“Ssh,” Niall mumbles when Harry pulls away, his eyelids fluttering. He still feels half asleep. 

Niall twists and suddenly the duvet isn’t as tight. Harry rolls so he can press closer to him and Niall sighs, kissing him again. 

It’s too fast at first, Niall kissing him like if he loses momentum, they’ll stop again. He tastes of sleep but his mouth is warm so Harry kisses him back, pushing his body up into Niall’s chest to keep him close. 

He hasn’t kissed him -- anyone -- like this in so long. It’s sore, Niall’s rhythm bruising and Harry dragging his teeth over Niall’s bottom lip so it doesn’t feel like Harry’s taking the brunt of it. He can give as good as he gets. 

He doesn’t like the idea of them fighting like this but it eases some of the frustration building in Harry’s gut to hear Niall grunt into his mouth after a particularly searing bite. Strangely satisfying. 

Niall tugs at Harry’s shirt, groaning when Harry licks across his mouth wetly, his hand pressing firm over Niall’s ribcage. They wrestle the shirt off together, Niall only drawing away from his mouth to look between them and get at his flies. 

Niall looks a bit wild -- his eyes glassy still, his mouth wet and red. Harry catches his breath, his chest rising quickly as Niall undoes the zips and pulls them, fingernails digging into the skin at the top of his groin. Harry bucks up, desperation flooding through him now that he’s fully awake. 

“Here,” Harry pants, reaching down to help him. Niall’s breathing harshly, his fingers clumsy. Harry whines, working his hips upwards when Niall finally pulls his dick free of his boxers. 

“Stop,” Niall snaps, his fingers wrapping around Harry’s wrist when Harry reaches to touch himself. Harry’s heart thumps in his throat, his mouth opening and closing around breaths as he stares up at Niall. 

Niall stares back at him for a moment, his grip tightening around Harry’s wrist. He’s watching him, waiting for a reaction and Harry’s mouth goes dry to see him like this. Harry needs to touch himself. Needs to feel at least something to ease the pressure. 

He’s been having sex -- in no way has he been pining for Niall just for that -- but it’s been so long since he’s been in bed with Niall that it’s making his head swim. He should savour it, make it last if it’s never going to happen again. But now he’s here, he can’t. His body feels lit up. The _want_ in him thrums through him and he can’t deny his instincts. 

He rolls easily onto his back, Niall guiding him with his hand still around his wrist. He presses it into the mattress beside Harry’s ear, leaning over him until he can straddle one of Harry’s thighs. 

Harry chokes, gasping for breath. Harry can feel Niall’s weight settle, the press of his balls against Harry’s broad thigh. He’s still wearing boxers, the front of them bulging obscenely. 

Harry lifts his free hand, presses it to the front of Niall’s stomach. Niall glances down, his eyes shutting. He’s breathing deeply, Harry can feel it against his palm. He slides it down, presses the heel of his hand to the top of Niall’s dick through his underwear. 

“Harry,” Niall says, his voice rough and broken. The sound of it makes Harry feel hot all over. His dick smearing against his belly as he draws Niall down into another hard kiss and Harry uses Niall’s distraction to rut up against him, gasping into Niall’s mouth. 

Niall’s hand tightens around Harry’s wrist for a moment, just a flex of his fingers as he pushes his own hips down against Harry’s thigh. Harry can feel his own pulse in his ears, in his throat, against where Niall’s fingers have him tight. He’s starting to get restless, the need to come threatening to take over. 

Niall bites on his lip, drags his mouth over Harry’s smooth chin. Harry can feel his stubble rub over his adam’s apple, into the hollow of his throat as Niall bites at his pulse point. Harry uses his free hand to pull at the elastic of Niall’s boxers, the elastic snapping when he lets go. 

Niall jolts against him, grunting against his shoulder where he’s biting hard enough to leave a mark. Harry does it again, before he pulls them over the curve of his arse, the material getting caught around Niall’s splayed thighs and bent knees. 

His skin feels warmer when it’s bare against Harry’s thigh, the softness against the hair above Harry’s knee, the press of his dick into the crease of his groin. Niall’s sticky and sweaty already, his skin dragging over Harry’s with every move he makes. 

Harry runs his palm over Niall’s bum, feels out the roundness of the muscle. Niall’s teeth are sharp against his shoulder and he jolts, Harry’s fingers slipping into the cleft of Niall’s arse. 

“Do you want fingers?” Harry asks, forgetting that they’re having some sort of angry-silent-sex. 

Niall doesn’t answer for a moment, panting into the crook of his neck as he arches his back above Harry’s torso. It’s sweaty between them, air cooling on Harry’s stomach. Niall presses back against Harry’s hand, his breathing hitching. 

“Yes,” Niall grunts, hips rolling into Harry’s thigh again. He breathes against Harry’s ear for a moment. “And your mouth.”

Harry grins, turning his head to see his face. It’s half hidden but Harry can see the pink spreading right up to his hairline. 

They shift, Niall finally letting go of Harry’s wrist. It feels cool without the heat of his hand and for a moment Harry wishes there was some way they could do this without Niall letting go of him like that. 

Niall rolls onto his back, goes hunting through the drawer beside his bed for lube. Harry has a spare thought to the condom in his suit pocket but it disappears as Niall rolls back to him. He presses the bottle into Harry’s palm, goes back to kissing at Harry’s shoulder as if he’s suddenly shy. 

“C’mere,” Harry breathes, lifting a hand to comb his fingers through Niall’s hair. Niall sighs, stretches out opposite him and opens his mouth, wanting for a kiss. 

It takes for Harry to lift his hand to Niall’s jaw to get him to soften. Harry sweeps his thumb over Niall’s cheekbone, his palm against where he’s going all stubbly. Niall’s shoulders untense and it feels like he melts against him, his body finally pushing back into Harry’s chest. 

Niall’s hand clutches at Harry’s waist, his fingers pressing into the skin there, warm and pliant. 

“Harry,” Niall moans and it makes Harry’s belly twist to hear the desperation in his tone, the way his voice has went high and sharp and needy. 

Harry kisses him back, tongue sweeping into his open mouth. Niall moans softly, his hand going lax at Harry’s shoulder. His knuckles brush against Harry’s ear, the pads of his fingers gentle against his jaw and then Niall’s pulling away, his eyes wide as he catches his breath. 

Harry wants to say something but he can’t. If he opens his mouth, it will all come spilling out of him. 

He kisses him again instead. He thinks that maybe Niall was right to keep their kissing searing and rough. It wouldn’t hurt as much. Harry can feel the edge to each brush of their lips, each touch weighted in its own way. Niall’s eyes follow him as he kisses down his jaw and chest. Harry pauses, licks over his nipple and trails his tongue down the line of Niall’s stomach. 

Niall lifts his knee, splays his thighs wide so Harry can settle between them. 

He smells warm of sweat and skin and clothing. Harry can never fully describe the smell of being so close like this. He presses his nose into the crease of Niall’s hip, mouths across Niall’s pubic hair. Niall hums up above him, something low and pleased from the back of his throat that Harry knows he doesn’t mean for Harry to hear. 

Niall’s fingers are curled in a fist on the mattress and Harry touches them, wiggles a finger into the middle of his closed palm to get him to let go. Niall unfurls them, hesitates for a moment before he pushes his hand into Harry’s shorn hair. 

Harry sighs, goes pliant a little bit. Niall’s fingers scratch at his scalp for a moment and Harry closes his eyes, presses his nose to the space between Niall’s balls and the crease of his thigh. 

He’s _missed_ this. 

Harry doesn’t get to stay there long, Niall’s fingers tightening in Harry’s hair and guiding him up to his dick. It stings slightly, a touch too harsh and that harshness is back again, snapping them back to that line neither of them want to cross. Harry grunts, ignoring Niall’s dick as he uncaps the lube instead. 

Niall rocks his hips, trying to get his dick to bump into Harry’s mouth but Harry refuses to budge even though his mouth is starting to water. 

He lifts his gaze to watch Niall’s face as he runs a first wet finger over him. Niall stares back at him, his expression tight and guarded as Harry rubs over his hole. Harry turns his mouth to the inside of his thigh, presses a wet kiss there but never stops looking at him, his eyes straining until he has to blink. 

Niall’s expression breaks when he slips his finger in. He’s tight and Harry wonders who was the last person he did this with, if it was Harry all the way back at Christmas time or if he’s met someone new he wants to do this with. The thought burrows down into every crevice of his brain, stinging. He smears lube around his hole, thumbs up over Niall’s perineum to make it nice and slippery like he remembers Niall likes it. Harry knows with the way Niall’s cock’s gone all red and leaking. It looks sore, Niall’s fingers curled loosely on his thigh beside Harry’s head. 

No matter who else Niall does this with, Harry knows he’s still the best at it. 

“Harder,” Niall gasps, his gaze snapping up to the ceiling when Harry looks at him again. Harry bites at the soft skin on the inside of his thigh, Niall’s knee jerking up so it feels like Harry’s completely wrapped up in him. Every breath echoes hotly back on his face, sweat gathering on Harry’s brow, on the back of Niall’s knees, the crease of his thigh. 

Harry laps at it, runs his tongue up around the base of Niall’s dick as he works his finger in and out, in-and-out, inandout. 

Niall’s hands find Harry’s head again, one sinking into his hair, the other tugging at the corner of his jaw. He flexes his hips again, this time his dick bumping at Harry’s chin and smearing over his lip. 

He tastes sharp, tacky, familiar. Harry opens his mouth and lets Niall feed his dick in. 

The sound Niall makes echoes in the room. It’s the first loud -- really loud -- sound he’s made. It makes Harry’s stomach flutter, the thought of Willie or Deo next door figuring out what they’re doing. There’s something dirty in making Niall fall apart, making him lose control tonight when he so clearly wanted to have the upper hand. 

Harry suckles at the tip of his dick, runs his tongue around the underside. Teases even though he’s feeling the threads of desperation unravel inside himself. His wrist is starting to ache with the angle he’s fingering Niall with but he doesn’t stop, squeezes his free hand in between his chest and Niall’s body to squeezes more lube onto his finger and he slips a second in with his first. 

Niall groans again, his fingers tightening in Harry’s hair. Harry focuses on his breathing for a second, the rhythm faltering in his hand. Niall whines, rocking his hips up again and fucking into his mouth. 

Harry wishes it was his arse. Wishes that there was some way for Harry to press into the heat of Niall’s arse whilst Niall fucked into his. He wants to draw away from him, sit astride Niall’s hips and fuck down onto him. 

Harry spreads his legs, presses his aching dick against the rumpled duvet. For a moment, in his concentration on Niall he had forgotten about himself but his dick is throbbing where it’s trapped between his body and the bed. He gives into the urge to hump at the mattress for a moment, feeling the friction of the soft sheets against the sensitive head of his dick. 

He’s pulled away from it when Niall tugs on his hair, bringing him back to the task in hand. Harry follows it, head rising where Niall’s got his fingers threaded through the swooping fringe that Harry’s left long at the front. He watches as Niall’s eyes widen, his pupils dilated and dark. Finally drinking him in. Harry hollows his cheeks, sucks Niall down that makes him groan again, the fingers at his jaw fluttering. Puts on a show. 

Harry tongues at Niall’s shaft, takes the head of Niall’s dick into the soft side of his cheek. Niall paws at his face, feeling him out. It’s messy, spit drooling out of Harry’s mouth. Niall rocks his hips again and Harry relaxes his jaw, let’s him fuck into his mouth for a moment while Harry works in a third finger. 

“Oh, fuck,” Niall says softly, his fingers pulling at Harry’s hair so his mouth moves in rhythm with Niall’s thrusts. He repeats it louder, Harry’s pointed fingers slipping inside Niall’s body with ease now. “Oh, Harry, fuck.”

Harry’s arm is losing feeling but he can’t stop, Niall’s body fluttering and tensing all around him. He can feel the twitch of his thighs, the muscles in his legs and belly quivering. Harry loves it. That feeling of Niall coming around him, Harry right in the middle of it. 

Harry pushes up onto his knees, gets a better angle. He rubs his hand up Niall’s thigh, presses it around to hold onto his hip. He’s sucking in earnest now, his mouth messy and wet and sore as he takes Niall right into the back of his mouth. He pushes against Niall’s thrusting, setting his own speed as he starts to feel lightheaded, his breathing too short and shallow through his nose. 

Harry curls his fingers, finds Niall’s prostate and rubs at it, feeling out the hot little bump of it. 

“Harry,” Niall shouts, bucking up against him. He’s whining now, loud and guttural from the back of his throat. It feels like white noise, washing over the roar in Harry’s ears. Harry could come from it alone, he feels so strung out. 

Niall goes quiet as he comes, his dick kicking against the roof of Harry’s mouth. It makes Harry choke, the surprise of it but he keeps him in his mouth, swallowing around the head of his cock as Niall starts to shake around him. His thighs tighten around Harry’s ears, his shoulders coming up off the bed to curl into it. Harry slows down his pace but doesn’t stop his fingers moving, the pads of them just brushing over Niall’s prostate as he starts to whine again, a hand flying up to his face to breathe against his palm. 

Harry wants to keep his mouth on him too but Niall’s pushing at his forehead, tugging on his hair to get him to let him go. The first gulp of air makes Harry’s head rush, all the blood in his body pulsing in his pelvis. 

He uncurls his body, kneels up. Niall clenches his arsehole against Harry’s fingers as he pulls them out, rubbing his thumb over his red rim. He looks open and wet. Harry could just press his dick in and come with one thrust. 

He considers it for a moment, his hand going to his cock to line himself up but his hand starts pulling himself off on instinct, the draw of instant friction too much. His muscles are cramping, his legs and arms tense. The hand that hand that had been inside Niall, sticky and wet with lube, feels foreign as he wraps it around his dick, both of his hands working himself over. 

“Fuck,” Harry groans, pressing up the bed between Niall’s splayed legs. Niall stares at his hands work, his eyes heavy and dark but he doesn’t go to help. Harry’s chest gives out as he feels his orgasm pulse over, his voice loud as he looks over Niall’s fucked out body. “Fuck you.”

He comes with a splatter over Niall’s spent dick, semen flecking up Niall’s stomach. He collapses over him, Niall grunting when his weight falls across his body. 

Harry catches his breath, his head fuzzy and too light. Half of his body doesn’t feel connected, the buzzing in his ears loud and his fingers tingling as feeling comes to his arm. He groans again, pushing his and Niall’s bodies together in a sticky mess. Niall tenses underneath him, his hand fluttering at Harry’s hip to push him off or to cling onto him but ending up doing nothing. 

Harry turns his head, looks at Niall’s profile. He looks stunned, his mouth open and panting. It takes a moment for him to turn, meeting Harry’s gaze. He’s not quite smiling but Harry can see some of the warmth in his expression. 

“Niall,” Harry says and it comes out laden with everything he’s wanting to say but can’t. How much he loves this, how much he misses him, misses this, loves him. 

Niall gasps on a breath, his eyes widening. Harry smoothes his thumb over the apple of his cheek, watches as Niall’s eye lids flutter. He looks pink and flushed, his skin overheated. Harry noses against his mouth, feels his quick breath on his wet lips and then pulls him into a hug. 

Harry rolls onto his side, the sheets cool against his ribs. Niall sighs into it, his breath catching as he tucks into him. Over Niall’s shoulder, Harry can make out the dawn light just before he’s pulled back into sleep. 

 

“Deo’s making a fry if you want some?” Niall says. He’s up already, dressed and hair curling damp around his ears. He has two cups of tea in his hand and he’s holding one out in front of Harry as if he isn’t just waking up again, sprawled across the expanse of Niall’s empty bed and covered in goosebumps because the duvet is half on the floor. 

Harry blinks at him, still groggy from sleeping. It’s much brighter now -- late morning or early afternoon, Harry’s not sure. Harry hadn’t felt Niall get up and there’s a pang of disappointment that he missed that, missed the closeness between them. He sits for a moment, thinks over what happened during the night. 

It feels more intense in the brightness of the morning. Feels all the more weighted. Harry feels something akin to regret already stewing in his stomach. 

Harry shifts up the bed, his arse pressed against Niall’s pillow as he slouches against the headboard. The duvet is still at the bottom of the bed so he’s naked, Niall’s eyes falling over his body before he turns away. He sets one of the mugs on the bedside table and cradles the other in his hands, perching on the edge of the mattress.

Harry doesn’t say anything. He wants to touch him but he keeps his hands tucked by his sides. 

Waiting. 

“It’s Deo’s birthday,” Niall tells him, staring down at his tea. “That’s why I didn’t come. Had a party.”

Harry’s quiet for a moment. And then. “Would you have came anyway.”

There’s no inflection. It’s not a question. 

Niall’s shoulders fall, his body slumping slightly in on itself. He glances over at Harry and he feels so far away even though Harry could reach out and touch him. 

“No,” Niall says, his voice hard. 

They stare at each other for a moment before Niall glances away. 

It’s warm in Niall’s room -- the October sunshine and the central heating on -- but Harry feels a chill settle over his bare skin. He shivers, the bed jostling slightly and sits up properly, rolling off the bed. 

Niall doesn’t move, their arms brushing. Harry’s heart thumps, a jolt of something fizzing through them at the touch. He sips at his tea, Harry can see him from the corner of his eye as he reaches for his clothes. 

“You can borrow clean ones,” Niall mumbles when Harry finds his boxers flung in the far corner of the room. Harry nods. It feels so stilted between them again because neither of them have the courage to just talk. Harry isn’t one to feel vulnerable naked -- especially in front of Niall -- but he’s more aware of himself as he shuffles off towards Niall’s walk in wardrobe, Niall’s head bowed towards his hands but clearly just as aware of him if he’d been watching. 

He gets a few moments of respite inside Niall’s wardrobe. It’s a bit messy -- washing flung in the corner and a stack of sunglasses and hats piled across the chest of drawers. Harry finds a drawer of underwear quickly, steals a t-shirt and a pair of jeans that aren’t long enough on him but he jumps around until he gets them stretched over his hips anyway. 

He uses Niall’s toothbrush -- mostly just to piss him off -- and stares at his bloodshot eyes and unhappy expression in the mirror until his mouth feels his again. There’s blood in his spit, a faded pink spiderwebbing through the white foam and he takes his care to wash it properly away on the bowl. 

He’s stalling. He can hear Niall shuffle about in his bedroom -- the low pad of his feet, the sound of the mug on the table, the rustle of the duvet as he straightens it out. 

He turns to take a piss, his head swimming and stomach lurching when he sees his face stare up at him from the rack of magazines Niall has shoved into the space between the toilet and the tiled wall. 

The spine looks cracked, the first page curled a bit from the steam inside the bathroom when the shower’s going but Harry doesn’t know if he’s read it yet. He sets it back down, unsettled as his eyes stare back up at him. He’s proud of his work with the magazine, proud of the pictures and of the interviews. He knows the photographs inside out, stared at his face on the three covers for the past three weeks but it seems unsettling now. 

He stares at it the entire time he uses the toilet, unsure how to feel about Niall reading his article while taking a shit. He hasn’t even mentioned it. Not even some vague allusion to the article or anything. 

Niall’s eyes widen when he sees Harry emerge from the bathroom fully dressed in his pinched clothes. 

“A walk of shame seems a bit undignified mid-afternoon,” Harry mutters and at least Niall smiles at that.

Harry finds his wallet, tucks his phone into the back pocket of Niall’s jeans. They feel too tight but Niall’s eyes keeps straying towards him, his cheeks pink. 

“I really listened to the song,” Harry tells him. He’s not sure what makes him say it but Niall’s head jerks up, his eyes wide. 

Harry takes a breath, stares him out. At least Harry can give him that. 

“Thanks,” Niall mutters. “Thanks for your kind words too.”

Harry waves him off. He doesn’t care about Twitter. “I hope it does well,” Harry says sincerely. “It’s a really sweet song.”

Niall nods, his fingers flexing around the mug. From Harry’s height, he can see that it’s long empty. 

“I’ll leave you home,” Niall says, getting to his feet. Harry nods, slipping on his velvet boots. They look silly with Niall’s jeans, showing off a sliver of his ankle. Niall sets his mug beside Harry’s untouched tea, pulls on a pair of trainers. 

There’s a general hum in the house as they make their way through it. The shower in the main bathroom is running, the smell of bacon working it’s way back through the hallways. Niall lifts his keys from the hallway table and calls into Deo to tell he’s out for a minute. 

“I’m just about done,” Deo complains. “Christ, Niall.”

“Keep me a plate then,” Niall snaps back. 

Harry loiters behind him, doesn’t wish Deo a happy birthday even though it’s on the tip of his tongue. Last night, the idea of Deo knowing what was going on between them had been hot but now, it feels a touch too close to the bone. 

There’s a crisp sunshine in the front garden, Niall’s car parked closest to the gate. Harry doesn’t say anything as they get in, his suit trousers folded neatly on his knee. 

Niall turns the radio up, Five Live a din of chatter about sport Harry doesn’t care about. Harry sits back, strange to not be the one driving and watches as Niall changes gears, crooks his fingers around the bottom of the steering wheel, leans his elbow on the rest. He thinks of those fingers in his hair last night, of his thighs at Harry’s ears, of how loud he got when Harry finally got through to him. 

“Where are you living these days?” Niall finally asks as they approach the main road. Harry clears his throat, drags his eyes up to his profile. 

There’s something worn about him this afternoon, the workings of a hangover and a frown that tells him that last night is playing on his mind as much as it’s playing on Harry’s. 

“Still the same,” Harry mumbles. Niall’s eyebrows rise enough that Harry can see them over the rim of his sunglasses and Harry snorts softly, shaking his head. 

Niall makes it there without asking for directions and Harry tries not to think of how Niall can do that when he was only at this house once. As they approach, Harry finds himself wishing he lived someplace else just so the journey wouldn’t have to end so soon. 

“Thank you,” Harry says as Niall pulls to a stop at the kirb. He doesn’t pull in properly, he’s not staying. 

It feels wrong to be so formal like this. He doesn’t understand how he and Niall can be so easy together, to good but hard at the same time, neither of them ready to put themselves out there and just say what they mean. 

Harry stares at his gate, knows that Glenne and Jeff and all the rest will be inside waiting for him. He picks at a mark on Niall’s jeans, thinks they’re probably not washed since Niall last wore them. 

“Invite me to the next one,” Niall says in a rush. Harry’s neck jars, he looks up that quick. 

“What?” Harry asks, confused for a moment. Niall glances at him nervously, fidgets his fingers against the steering wheel. 

“Invite me to the next party,” Niall repeats and slides his glasses down his nose so Harry can see his eyes, something softening in his features. There’s something pleading in it too, like Niall knows that Harry would stubbornly not invite him again, just so he didn’t have to face the rejection. Harry very rarely gives out second chances. 

Harry leans in on instinct, kisses him sweetly on the lips. Niall sighs, lifting a hand to rub across the short sides of his hair. 

“I will,” Harry promises him and Niall offers him a watery smile before he pulls away. 

“Bye,” Niall whispers as Harry slips out of the car. Harry lifts his hand in a wave and watches as he pulls away, only turning towards the house as Niall’s car slips out of view.


End file.
